


Brutal

by nevercomestheday



Category: Reservoir Dogs (1992)
Genre: Anger, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Explanations, Gen, Heavy Angst, M/M, Police Brutality, Pre-Canon, Prison, Rage, Rape
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-27
Updated: 2017-09-27
Packaged: 2019-01-06 00:09:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,314
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12200040
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nevercomestheday/pseuds/nevercomestheday
Summary: The reason Vic came back different, and with a particular hatred for police.





	Brutal

**Author's Note:**

> I know I tagged it all over the place but THIS FIC CONTAINS RAPE! PLEASE READ AT YOUR OWN DISCRETION!
> 
> Characters belong to Quentin Tarantino.

A little calendar hangs taped to the wall of Vic’s cell. Normally he’d never keep track of days like this, preferring not to think about how many days he has left, but his release date is fast approaching. He’s got a little less than a month and a half left.

The calendar was a gift from Eddie, sent through his “Aunt Edith” about a month ago. Vic even kept the note that was in the box; it now sat taped to the back of the calendar flush against the wall.

 

_ VIC- _

_ NOT MUCH LONGER. CAN’T HARDLY WAIT. _

_ XXXXX _

 

The calendar itself was unimpressive, a basic sunsets and landscapes theme with all the major holidays marked. When he flipped through it, Vic was pleasantly surprised to see his planned release date circled in bright red marker. 

He marked another X on the calendar, crossing yesterday out, and changed his clothes, ready for yet another day of going through the motions.

Breakfast, work detail picking up trash and washing tables, lunch, time in the rec room watching TV, dinner, push-ups, a shower, lights out. 

Same old routine for almost four years now.

 

He eats his meal alone, sitting where he usually sits on the end of the table nearest the door. Occasionally someone will sit by him and try to make conversation, but Vic’s not much of a talker. He might have joined a conversation a year ago, but now? His mind is far, far away.

He imagines the meal he’ll eat when he gets home. Nothing fancy, just a trip to Big Kahuna Burger for a double with fries and extra pickles on the side. He can almost feel the cup of Coke’s condensation against his palm, can almost hear Eddie laughing with food in his mouth. 

He won’t admit it, but he can’t wait to hear that laugh again. It’s been so long.

 

Vic is rolling his garbage cart down an empty hallway when he hears a noise behind him. He looks over his shoulder to see a guard, one he’s never seen before, walking up to him.

The guard is tall and wide, his hairline is receding and what’s left is mostly grey. On his face is a playful, almost mischievous smile, and when he approaches Vic, he nudges him.

“Getting into any trouble today, inmate?” When Vic just shakes his head in response, the guard frowns. “The correct response is, “no, Sir.” What’s your name, inmate?”

“Vega,” Vic grumbles. He’s still only half paying attention, the rest of his mind still thinking about how quickly he can finish work detail and get to lunch.

“Didn’t I just tell you to call me Sir, inmate?” He’s clearly looking for a fight.

Vic knows better. “Sorry, Sir. Can I go now?”

The officer laughs darkly. He lowers his voice. “Oh, you’re not going anywhere, inmate,” he growls, pulling a nightstick out of his holster. “You’re gonna do what I say, or I’m gonna beat you ‘til you do,” he says, leaning in close to Vic’s ear.

Vic’s entire body tenses up. If somebody talked like this to him on the outside, they’d be a bloody stain on the floor before they could blink. But here, in prison? With a guard? He’s stuck. If he fights back, he’ll get more time added to his sentence, possibly in solitary. And if he doesn’t… He’s honestly not sure.

 

The angry CO leads him into an empty supply closet at the end of the hall, gripping his collar in one hand and the nightstick in the other. 

“That’s right, pretty boy, move your ass.” 

Vic’s entire mind shuts down as he hears the door shut behind them. The room is lit by a hanging lightbulb, but Vic shuts his eyes tight. The officer’s grim chuckling is just quiet enough for Vic to hear him unzipping his fly.

His eyes snap open just in time to see the officer’s arms fly up and turn him around. 

He can’t resist. He can’t defend himself. He feels his arms go up in reflex and immediately regrets the impulse.

“Oh, no, no, no,” the officer says. He waves his nightstick and hits Vic right in the side of the head. “I don’t think so.” 

The guard pulls out a set of cuffs and locks Vic’s wrists. He pushes him back up against the wall and pulls his pants down, one hand then moving to cover Vic’s mouth.

He just closes his eyes and waits for it to be over. What else can he do?

 

The officer uncuffs him once he’s put his own pants back on, and, before Vic can even think, starts hitting him with the nightstick again, this time hitting his shoulders and stomach and not stopping until Vic is on the ground.

“Now, be a model inmate and keep your pretty little mouth shut.”

 

Vic doesn’t move for a few minutes, numb to the world. He finally collects himself and shuffles back to his cart.

 

He doesn’t eat lunch. He doesn’t even get a tray. Vic just sits there, staring at the empty table in front of him, and zones out. He can’t accept what’s happened, can’t acknowledge how sore his whole body is or how filthy he feels. 

Vic just heads to his cell, dropping onto the bed for a while to stare at the wall. 

He goes to the showers after twenty minutes or so, and though he wants to scrub his body raw, he just stands under the water for ten minutes. 

Crying is for girls and little bitches, and Vic is a man, but he finds his face covered in tears through the entire sleepless night.

 

Days go by and Vic is practically a robot. He does his work, picks at his meals, and goes to bed. 

He doesn’t do his push-ups, doesn’t watch TV, says nothing to his cellmate. 

 

Vic hasn’t seen that CO since the incident.

 

Finally, a week and a half later (not that Vic would know- he’s stopped marking his calendar), he sees the guard at breakfast. Vic hates himself for it, but he feels fear creep into him like he’s a little boy again and his dad is drunk.

The guard is laughing with some other officer, and before Vic can turn away, they make eye contact. The bastard winks, still laughing with his buddy.

That’s the day Vic breaks.

 

He rushes through work detail clenching his jaw. At one point, he sees a cockroach crawling along the wall, and he punches it so hard, his knuckles are bleeding. The roach drops, squashed flat and dead, and Vic stomps on it.

When he makes it back to his cell after lunch, he does a hundred push-ups, fifty sit-ups, and punches the air so many times his shoulders ache.

 

He continues this routine until the day he’s slated for release. He starts eating again, trying to beef himself up. 

Vic doesn’t see the guard much, but when he does, he glares at him when he’s not looking, trying to will him to burst into flames.

The day he’s supposed to leave this hellhole, Vic takes nothing with him. He doesn’t even bother to give it away- he takes the little pile of papers and the calendar and chucks them in the trash can on his way out.

It’s just his luck that the bastard CO is his escort out of the prison. Vic says nothing, stone-faced, trying to focus on not killing this sack of shit so he doesn’t have to go back in.

Just as he’s about to go through the gate, the guard pulls him aside.

“Happy trails, princess.”

It’s at that moment, walking briskly out the door towards the greyhound station, that Vic vows to take revenge. 

Not just on that officer, but on any cop who gets in his way.

 

Maybe even one minding his own business.


End file.
